


Swimming in a Sea of Expectations

by withthekeyisking



Series: Sladick Fics [20]
Category: Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Dark Dick Grayson, Day 7, Dissociation, First Time, Human Trafficking, Hurt Dick Grayson, M/M, Murder, Not Really?, Shock, SladeRobin Week, SladeRobin Week 2019, described in much detail, i mean kinda, might continue this just because of all the angst potential, take a guess what i pick, this can either be read as good slade or manipulative slade, up to you, we'll see
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 03:51:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21247025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/pseuds/withthekeyisking
Summary: Dick looks down at his blood-covered gloves and has no idea what to do now.





	Swimming in a Sea of Expectations

**Author's Note:**

> SladeRobin Week 2019 Day 7: Vampire AU | Forced Orgasm | **First Time/Loss of Virginity**
> 
> My thanks to my dudes on discord for helping me pick between two ideas for this submission (and encouraging me to do both anyway lol, the other simply at a later date, which I will _definitely_ be doing)
> 
> It's the final day of SladeRobin Week, my buds. I hope you've enjoyed these seven fics as much as I've enjoyed sharing them with you! <3 You've all been so great, bringing such big smiles to my face with all your wonderful comments, and I appreciate it a lot!!

He wants to say he didn't mean for it to happen.

And he didn't! Really, he didn't. It wasn't like he..._planned_ it, or anything. He didn't track the man down with the thought of doing...this. Really, he didn't. He would never. He believes in what Bruce preaches. He believes that this is wrong. He would never want something like this to happen.

He wants to say it was an accident, like when he killed the Joker, when he simply didn't have enough control and beat a man to death, revived afterwards or not.

It's hard to explain this away as an accident. Because he...it was a choice. What he did. _How_ he did it. It wasn't like with Blockbuster, where he simply stepped aside. It's not like he simply let someone else take a life. It was...

He didn't mean for it to happen. He_ didn't._ But—

But Andrew Jacobi is dead, throat cut with his own knife. He bled out in seconds, his carotid artery cut straight through.

Dick didn't plan it. It wasn't planned. It_ wasn't._ The knife was simply...right there.

Andrew Jacobi had personally killed more than fifty people and ordered the deaths of hundreds more, not to mention the thousand-plus men, women, and children Jacobi was responsible for selling into slavery through his trafficking business. Not to mention how many people all across North America (and, frankly, the world at large) were now addicted to drugs because of how forcefully the man pushed them. Not to mention the twenty-seven women Dick could _find_ that said Jacobi raped them.

It was never going to end. He'd been arrested and gotten off multiple times. His business never suffered, but _countless_ people did.

Dick didn't plan it. But he can't...he can't say he didn't mean it.

He tracked Jacobi to the warehouse where the man was keeping his _product,_ all the innocent people he'd kidnapped and had yet to sell off. Dick found him. Found _them._ And he saw all the broken people, all the scared children, all the drugged-up victims. He saw Jacobi standing at the edge of it all, smiling, looking over all the pain and misery like it was his kingdom.

He saw how it was never going to end, how the piece of human garbage he'd been chasing for _months_ would just get off scot free again. He's seen it happen over and over and _over_ again. Jacobi wasn't going to pay for his crimes.

Dick didn't plan it.

_He didn't plan it._

The guards were easy to take out. And then it was just him and Jacobi, and the man could fight, that was for sure, and had no problem fighting dirty. But he wasn't trained by the best like Dick was. Dick was simply _better._

And then Jacobi was on the ground, his gun far across the warehouse floor _(a kick Dick delivered to his hand),_ his knife thrown somewhere behind him, leg broken, ribs cracked.

And there Dick was, standing above him, Jacobi's vicious threats curling around his ears. He could see all the innocent people, most of them drugged so heavily they probably had no clue where they were, the rest absolutely terrified. He could see the tear-streaked faces of the survivors he'd spoken to. He could see all those fancy lawyers Jacobi had on speed dial, and all the people he had in his pocket.

He could see another victory for this piece of shit.

And he could see the knife.

So he—picked it up. He picked it up, and it wasn't planned, it _wasn't,_ but now the knife was in his hand and Jacobi had a broken leg, nowhere to go, and Dick...

Dick's been in the hero business since he was nine years old. He knows what it takes to make a death quick; he's seen enough of them.

And it was just. It...

It was never going to end.

It was over before Jacobi even knew what was happening. One smooth stroke right across the man's neck.

Dick's seen people with their throats cut before. Multiple times, even. He works in a gruesome business. But for some reason he wasn't expecting the sheer amount of blood that sprayed out, pooling around the body as it (as _he)_ convulsed and then fell still.

Now Andrew Jacobi is dead. And Dick is holding the knife.

There's blood all over him, the blue symbol across his chest covered with red. His gloves are drenched. He can feel it on his face, too, warm and sticky. He's never cut someone's throat before—he didn't move fast enough to escape getting hit.

The man's dead. The man is _dead._ He did that. He didn't mean...

Well.

He didn't _plan._

What does he do now? He just killed someone. _Fuck,_ he just _killed someone._ There is a man dead because of him. Dead. He did that. He—

Dick recognizes that he's probably in shock right now. He thinks it's understandable. This isn't like Joker. This _certainly_ isn't like Blockbuster. He did this on purpose, he can't say he didn't. Jacobi had a broken leg, he wasn't going anywhere. It wasn't self defense. He actually walked four steps, bent down, picked up the knife, walked back, slit the throat.

He did that. He...

Dick looks down at his blood-covered gloves and has no idea what to do now.

How will he be able to look Bruce in the eye? If he thought Blockbuster was bad, what about actually doing the job himself? He broke the one rule, the _Golden Rule._ This is the one thing Bruce can never get past, Jason is a testament to that, every hero who's ever taken a life and now is ignored by Batman is a testament to that. Dick's going to lose Gotham. He's going to lose his family.

He just _killed someone._

His phone rings.

Dick startles, flinching at the sudden loudness in the dead silent warehouse.

He answers almost on autopilot. "Hello?"

_"Pretty bird."_ Slade. Why— _"I'm in town."_ Ah. That. _"Feel like meeting up?"_

Another thing Bruce certainly wouldn't approve of. Dick's..._connection_ to Deathstroke. Normally, this would be the part where Dick would feel a little guilty about that. Or the opposite; angry and bold. Right now—

Andrew Jacobi is dead.

Dick stares at the body. The pool of blood has finally stopped growing, but he never moved away, and it's surrounding his boots, soaking into the material.

Dick stares and stares and stares.

_"Nightwing?"_

Dick startles again. He forgot Slade was on the phone.

"I..."

Suddenly, Slade's voice sharpens. _"What's wrong?"_

Can he really feel the blood through his gloves, through his boots? Or is that just his imagination?

_"Grayson,"_ Slade barks, and Dick sucks in a sharp breath, blinking rapidly. _"Are you injured?"_

"I—Slade. I'm not...I—I don't..."

_"Where are you?"_ Slade asks immediately.

Dick looks around himself, trying to remember how he ended up here, where _here_ really is. He tries to remember anything over than picking up the knife and slitting Jacobi's throat.

_He didn't mean for this to—_

He did mean. He did. He picked up the knife. He did this.

_"I'm tracking your cellphone's GPS,"_ Slade tells him when he doesn't respond. _"I'm on my way."_

Dick nods, not recognizing that Slade can't see him. His hand is still holding the knife. It glints wickedly, gleaming red and silver in the moonlit warehouse. A murderer's blood. A rapist. A drug and human trafficker. A despicable human being.

He's a murderer too.

He doesn't know how much time passes before he hears a door clang open, heavy _(familiar)_ footsteps approaching him cautiously.

Slade moves to remain in Dick's line of sight, but the mercenary is looking down at the body as he comes to a stop a few feet away from Dick.

Dick barely breathes as Slade takes in the cut throat, the blade in Dick's hand, the blood everywhere. It's clear as day what happened here. There's no room for interpretation, no gray area where something might've been lost in translation. No, he did this. He killed.

Andrew Jacobi is dead.

Dick Grayson killed him.

"Kid."

It's kind of nauseating, really. The split open flesh. Dick's seen countless bodies, countless crime scenes, countless gruesome deaths, and yet it's like he's never witnessed it before. Because it's not natural, that jagged skin. Bodies shouldn't act like that. They don't, not unless someone makes them.

"Kid, can you hear me?"

He can. But he can't speak, can't look away from Jacobi. His feet feel wet. Are they wet? Has the blood soaked his boots and reached inside? Will his feet and hands be stained like his soul?

A few footsteps. A large, warm hand on his cheek.

Slade tilts Dick's head away from the body, tilts his head to look at the mercenary instead Jacobi. Slade's expression is perfectly calm. Steady and reliable and _calm._

"Who is he?" Slade asks simply, like it's simple, like this is okay—

"Andrew Jacobi," Dick replies, and the name tastes like ash on his tongue. Andrew Jacobi is a monster, a despicable human being, a piece of trash who doesn't deserve to live—

Dick killed him.

Slade nods slowly. His expression doesn't change. He's probably heard of him. Dick's relieved he doesn't have to explain.

"We need to get you cleaned up, pretty bird," Slade murmurs. His thumb strokes softly over Dick's cheek, and Dick can feel the blood smear. He shudders. "Time to get out of here."

Dick blinks at him. It takes a minute for the words to sink in. Then—

"No," he croaks out. "No, I need to...call Bruce. The police. I..."

Slade shakes his head. He keeps stroking Dick's cheek. The repetitive motion is soothing, and Dick leans into the touch.

"How many people has he killed?" Slade asks.

Dick stares at him for a moment. Words feel slow, coming in and out like molasses. But he knows this case like the back of his hand. "By his own hand, at least fifty. He's ordered the deaths of far more, and been responsible for deaths up into the hundreds."

Slade presses a gentle kiss to his forehead, like a reward. Dick shivers.

"And how many people have been trafficked because of Jacobi?"

"Thousands," Dick whispers. "Men, women, children. So many people..."

Slade hums his agreement. "How many times has he been caught and released, pretty bird?"

When Dick answers, it's on a sob. "Seven times. They let him go, each time, and he went on to keep hurting people, and it was never going to stop, he was never going to stop—" He's winding himself up.

Slade shushes him and kisses him again, his beard brushing against the skin of his forehead.

"Don't mourn this death, Dick," Slade tells him. "Don't feel guilty for this."

"I...Slade, I _killed_ him, I did that, I—"

"Yes," Slade agrees gently. "You did well."

Dick shudders. "No, I—"

"You did well," Slade repeats. "You've saved so many lives, kid. You can't bring back the ones he's already killed, you can't save the people already shipped out of the country, but you've brought an end to his reign of terror. You stopped it, kid. _You_ stopped it. You made a choice, a hard one. You did well."

Dick squeezes his eyes shut. "Bruce is gonna—"

"Don't worry about the Bat," Slade interrupts, not raising his voice. "Everything is going to be okay."

"I killed him," Dick repeats, and the words sound so wrong coming out of his mouth. _I killed him._ He took a life. A man is dead. He did that.

"Would you rather he still be alive?" Slade asks. "Would you rather he continued on doing what he'd been doing, destroying lives, raping women, selling people into slavery?"

Dick looks up at him in horror. "No! No, of _course_ not, never! That's why I did it, he was just going to get off again, and keeping hurting more people. I couldn't let that happen, Slade, I couldn't let that happen. I didn't want—please, believe me, I..."

Slade pulls him close, wrapping his arms around him and holding tightly. Dick hears the knife clatter to the ground before he recognizes that he dropped it. He feels the tears on his cheeks before he notices that he's shaking. He clings to Slade like he's his last lifeline.

"Do you regret it?" Slade asks, voice a low rumble.

Does he regret it? _Does he regret it._ Does. He. Regret. It. Does he—

"No," Dick replies hoarsely.

"Would you take it back if you could?"

Would he—

"No."

Slade presses a soft kiss to the crown of his head. "Everything is going to be okay, pretty bird. I'll take care of you."

Dick lets out a shuddering breath and relaxes into the hug, desperately holding onto the idea that he's not alone, that Slade's going to help him, that everything's going to be okay.

Over the top of his head, where Dick can't see, Slade smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> It's been real my dudes! If you want to chat, I'm [boyblunder-thedarkheir](https://boyblunder-thedarkheir.tumblr.com/) on tumblr and my discord username is my AO3 name #0874. My email is my AO3 name @gmail
> 
> As ever, I hope you enjoyed!  
-Q


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